Irish treasure...

Hi

Fond greetings to those intrepid souls who have been checking out this diary regularly. I'm thinking particularly of: Xiao Lin from China who goes by the English name Valerie and is now managing a cafe in Dublin; Scrapper the Rover who is better known to internet scholars as Mr Joe Fagan from Boston; and Ewan McKenna who is PR chief for leading Irish Labour politician Jack Wall.
The following poem is dedicated to you, and to all good folks who have happened upon these pages, and indeed to any scoundrels who chance this way.

at midnight

forget the calls of woe and wealth
the wind is still
the ground rock hard
behold god's wonders darkness pluming breath
the fields the fens the ditches and the stars

bold traveller come to ireland in the wintertime
see the plough pitch and yaw across a jewelled sky
orion's goat wander back and forth
you'll say healy's was a trivial rhyme
but it brought me here
and i'm grateful just the same

Message From Mount Olympus

Dear James.
You are the finest writer of a generation.
Never doubt it.
Yours, Athene.

Anarchy

Evening at the Chateau de Healy.
Entering the computer room I am mildly startled to see a clothes iron in the middle of the floor. The iron is lying there forlornly enough in a state of induced decrepitude.
The reason for its forlornness, (Forlornability? Forlornatude? Forlornification? Ah to hell with it!), the reason for its forlornness, and indeed its decreptitude, (Decrepitudinousness?), the reason for 'em all I tells 'ee, is that the aforementioned iron has just fallen victim to a rampaging sheepdog.
The electrical flex has been chewed through and the plug is missing, presumed eaten.
"Dog," I scream calmly.
Paddy Pup pokes his head around the door.
He really does.
He looks somewhat incongruous.
The reason for his incongruousness, (No doubt about incongruousness!), is that one of my socks is dangling from his mouth.
"Dog," I scream again. "You are an anarchist."
Having satisfied himself that I'm not about to bring him for a walk, Paddy Pup disappears up the hall to kill his sock in peace.
I meanwhile, set myself to disposing of the remains of the iron, so that my dear old Dad won't have a canniptian.
For the Dad loves that iron.
The only person he ever let use it was Ludmilla a young girl who stayed with us during the Polish crisis.
The Polish crisis being, that I invited Ludmilla to stay while she searched for work in this country, and then realised I had no clue as to how I would ever get her to move out.
Ah.
But that's another story.